


someday, someday, when I burst into flames

by tinyspoons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depressed John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson Needs A Hug, John Watson Whump, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock is Trying His Best, This bitch is SAD, it's more likely than you think, me a teenage american girl venting through a 35 year old white british man?, mention of suicidal thoughts, rated t for inevitable bad language!, when I remember what they are
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22658422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyspoons/pseuds/tinyspoons
Summary: There’s something else accompanying the tension, the consistent alert, but John can’t quite place his finger on it. It’s a shadow, a shadow he thinks he remembers taking residence up in his mind around the time Sherlock left. Sherlock has returned, but the shadow is still there.John Watson is fighting a war, but this time it's all in his mind.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 57





	1. constantly, constantly having a breakthrough (or a breakdown, or a blackout)

**Author's Note:**

> I swear my writing gets better when I feel like shit the proof is right here (aka it's right here until I reread it a couple days from now and think it reads like shit too lmao).
> 
> all mistakes are mine because I did no (0) research for this.

Sherlock has been back for one month.

John has been counting, and he isn’t really sure why. He’s not sure what he’s counting up to, or what he’s counting down to, or what he’s counting away from. 

But he has been, and Sherlock has been back for one month. They’ve had two cases in that time, although only one lead to the thrilling, heart-pumping, adrenaline-filled chase the two of them crave. The aftermath was the first time John had seen Sherlock smile - really, truly smile, not the fake, plastic thing he had been flashing at him as they tip-toed around each other in the relative silence of 221B.

It had broken some of the ice, and now they’re not tip-toeing anymore, exactly, but the tension is still there, keeping John constantly on edge. He’s still afraid that Sherlock might up and leave again, even though he knows the reason Sherlock had left in the first place. 

There’s something else accompanying the tension, the consistent alert, but John can’t quite place his finger on it. It’s a shadow, a shadow he thinks he remembers taking residence up in his mind around the time Sherlock left. Sherlock has returned, but the shadow is still there. It’s a sort of darkness, throwing shade over every thought of his until it’s hard to even let himself smile, and at the same time, it’s so _heavy_. It makes his mind heavy and dark until carrying it around is a burden, a challenge, and something he just . . . doesn’t want to do, anymore. 

He’s not entirely sure why. He doesn’t want to die, he thinks, but he isn’t sure, and the thought of just not having to think anymore is so comforting, sometimes. He remembers not feeling like this _before_ , he remembers doing anything and everything to keep living, to keep pushing, but now he doesn’t think the effort is, or was, worth it. He thinks the change from whatever he was back then to what he is now was drastic enough that he should be worried, but at the same time, the shift wasn’t jarring. It just was.

Strangely enough, nothing’s really changed. It feels like it should, but it doesn’t. He still works his shifts at the clinic, he still cleans up after both himself and Sherlock, he’s still Sherlock’s praise-giver (and care-taker) at crime scenes. He doesn’t do anything differently all, except now he has an unfortunate companion in all of these activities.

Since nothing had changed, he hadn’t expected Sherlock to pick up on anything odd, but it seems like he’s still underestimating Sherlock and his brilliant mind. Sherlock sticks closer to him, now, less time out on the streets of London doing who-knows-what, and instead is inside with him doing who-knows-what. He takes more time out of his day to pester John, and, lately, John’s been catching Sherlock staring at him, eyebrows drawn together, wearing the same face he does when analyzing a body or a suspect. 

John doesn’t know if Sherlock can see the shadow in his eyes. He hopes not. 

It’s what Sherlock is doing now, actually. John takes another subtle glance out of the corner of his eye, to check again, and Sherlock hasn’t moved. His body is angled towards the microscope, hands on the dials, but his face is tilted towards John, who is doing nothing but watching crap telly in the last couple hours before he turns in. Or, more accurately, he’s pretending to watch crap telly, staring at the screen, as he zones out, drifts, almost. He’s been doing it more and more often. He sometimes doesn’t even notice hours pass by as he does, and he’s both terrified of how many hours of his life he’s losing but also glad he doesn’t have to pay attention, to do anything, in those hours.

Speaking of- John checks his watch. Sure enough, it’s about the time he usually heads up to bed. He clears his throat and stands up, picking up the remote to turn off the telly. Sherlock’s eyes follow him. “I’m gonna, uh, head up.” Sherlock says nothing. John is used to this, though, and takes this as assent and heads towards the stairs. 

“John,” Sherlock’s voice stops him in his tracks. This is new. 

“Yes?” John calls back, cautiously, as he seems to always be around Sherlock these days.

“Are you,” he pauses. John tries to give him an encouraging look, but he’s not very good at being positive these days and he’s not sure how it comes across. “Are you okay?”

It’s the first time since Sherlock came back - maybe the first time ever - that Sherlock has asked him that. Has asked him anything about himself at all, maybe. He never bothered to ask about John before, he remembers, he’d always deduce, or get Mycroft to do some snooping for him, or do some snooping himself.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice is tentative, something John never thought he would hear. Sherlock has always been confident and assured of himself, excludes an aura that makes him seem untouchable, ethereal, and John doesn’t know if he likes this new Sherlock.

“Yes,” John says. “I’m fine.” He thinks he believes that, but he’s not sure. He’s not sure about very much, these days.

He turns and walks up the stairs and in another couple minutes he’s in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He’s not fine. He feels bad. He’s not sure why, or even how, but he knows there’s something in his mind that feels bad and awful and he wants it to stop. It doesn’t.

\---

They have another case. Sherlock had been ecstatic, something about the bodies being found in the walls, and it sounds exciting, like something John would have been just as excited for as Sherlock was.

But he’s not.

He knows he loves working cases with Sherlock, although he also knows that he doesn’t contribute half as much as his flatmate. The adrenaline from the chase, the dopamine rush from even just _listening_ to Sherlock’s brilliance as he slices a case clean open. He loves it, he knows he does, but he’s not excited. John repeats Sherlock’s words to himself, hoping to get a reaction from his mind, but the only thing he feels is an empty apathy. 

He grins at Sherlock anyway, says something vague about it being about time, and runs to fetch his coat. Sherlock must see right through him, though, as his expression falls, and John hates himself for it. Just because something is wrong with John doesn’t mean Sherlock has to suffer for it. He must think that John doesn’t like spending time with him anymore, must think that John doesn’t enjoy cases or Sherlock’s brilliance. 

But Sherlock doesn’t say anything, and John doesn’t either, and they both pretend to be happy and pretend they know the other is just as happy as they are. John quietly hates himself on the way there, the whole way trying to inspire the same passion he has always had about cases in his mind again. The only thing he manages to make himself is exhausted, and it’s not even noon yet.

\---

Over the next month, he still fails to inspire any sort of excitement about cases from himself. It’s disappointing and terrifying and so, so painful all at once, and he wants so badly to be angry at himself, to feel the burning rage at himself for being useless, but all he feels is a dull hatred.

It’s at the two and a half month mark that Sherlock comes back, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, and John asks, curious, “Where were you?”

Sherlock is facing away from him, shedding his magnificent coat, when he responds, so John can’t see his face when he replies, “Lestrade sent me a case.”

John’s heart stops.

“O-oh?”

“Yes. I didn’t think you would want to come - it looked like you were coming only because I asked you to come, recently.”

“I . . .” Something in his chest is burning. He knows that what Sherlock is saying is true, to a degree, and he knows that he would have come to the same conclusion, were he in Sherlock’s place. At the same time, he feels like something has been snatched away from him, like Sherlock has torn something straight from his chest and is now dangling it cruelly in front of him. He hadn’t appreciated the cases, the time, the experience shared with Sherlock enough, and now it was being taken from him. 

“John?” Sherlock’s looking at him now, concerned. The concern is a new, recent development. It started appearing at the two month mark. He still hasn’t figured out how to react. They don’t mention it. They don’t mention a lot, anymore. 

“I- okay,” John says. He doesn’t know what else to say. Doesn’t know how he should feel about it. He knows how he _does_ feel, kind of, but he doesn’t know how he _should_ feel. He’s finding out that, lately, there is a difference. “Okay.” 

He gets up and heads to the restroom. He locks the door behind him. Something in his mind is telling him to let himself weep, but he isn’t that pathetic quite yet, so, instead, he rests his head against the door and closes his eyes and tries to breathe.

\---

After that, he and Sherlock talk less than they already had been. It is month three and they are back to tip-toeing, John thinks, or at least, he is. They spend entire days without talking to each other. Sherlock is no longer as present as he had been in month one, and he spends days without even entering the flat. Hoping to escape John, he guesses, to breathe outside the thick smog that John seems to bring with him wherever he goes.

It seems that everything in John’s life is fracturing into small pieces. Maybe he himself is doing the same thing. Still, nothing changes. Usually, when John thinks that everything is falling apart, it is: he is no stranger to guns and bombs and dead bodies and the feeble cries and moans of those on the brink of death. But all that is a stark contrast to now. Everything is falling apart, but everything is the same. He’s fighting a war against himself, and there’s no sign of it. No reinforcements en route. 

He wishes he could talk to Sherlock, but he’s not sure what he would tell him, or what Sherlock would think, even if he did. He wants to think that Sherlock, with all his new concern, would figure out a brilliant solution, just like always. Always fixing up poor, stupid John Watson. But, realistically, he knows that all he would do is make Sherlock, still unaccustomed to human emotions, uncomfortable. 

Now that Sherlock no longer asks after him on cases, and John doesn’t ask to come along (because even though Sherlock had said that he didn’t want to pressure John into coming, he is still worried that Sherlock just doesn’t want him around, had figured out that there is something _wrong_ , something pathetic now about his old companion, rendering him a burden), John starts taking out longer shifts on the clinic, and then regrets that he does.

John had thought that he should at least be making better use of his time. Now that he doesn’t have a social life anymore, he can at least help people other than himself, who had real, tangible issues that he could fix. Not like him, weak and pathetic and _like this_ , constantly.

But dragging himself out of bed is a chore, now, and all he looks forward to is getting into bed, a time which is becoming earlier and earlier. He starts to resent the extra hours. He drifts through them, numbly. He finds himself staring off into space often, only to be snapped back into it by Sarah telling him he has someone waiting for him. Sometimes he feels that there is something dragging him down, every part of him down, all the time. Dragging himself from place to place is a burden, trying to maintain a happy composure is even more so. Occasionally he finds himself out of his body, watching himself go through the motions every day. 

It’s the best way to describe it, really. Going through the motions. It seems like it should be relaxing, not having to think about anything, but all it is is exhausting.

He drops the extra hours.

\---

John realizes, one day, that he no longer has a social life.

He is coming back from the clinic, heading towards the Tube entrance, and he sees Sherlock. He’s sitting at some small cafe, the sort of thing Sherlock would never have stooped so low as to do before, with Molly. They’re having tea, and Sherlock looks to be speaking a mile a minute at Molly, who only listens. 

John is happy, is proud of Sherlock. Voluntary social interaction is a first. He’s glad that Sherlock goes out now, actually talks to people instead of staying cooped up inside all the time. 

John himself has been doing that lately, he realizes. 

He’s not sure when that happened. He had always tried to maintain a social circle outside of Sherlock, with varying degrees of success as he really only met up with Lestrade with any sort of regularity. He went out on dates, went to pubs, sometimes, and struck up conversation with whoever he was sitting next to. He had always been a social person.

Now, though, he doesn’t speak to anyone that isn’t a coworker or, sometimes, Sherlock. Not even Lestrade. He can’t muster up the energy to talk to people anymore, so he doesn’t. 

He watches Sherlock for a little bit. The numb almost-sadness that has its fingers wrapped around him like a vice constantly nowadays is in full swing. It almost hurts, looking at them, like an observer, always as an observer, like watching himself live a life that doesn’t seem like his anymore. They are happy and he is here, watching them through a one-way mirror. 

He turns away, disgusted with himself. He can’t even be glad for Sherlock anymore, and now he’s sure that something’s wrong with him, for him to have become this awful, miserable little thing. No wonder no one speaks to him, no wonder Sherlock no longer allows him to accompany him on cases, if this is what he has become.

\---


	2. soft and slow, watch the minutes go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I was going to have one more chapter before we got to the hurt/comfort but then I got too depressed to write about being depressed so I hurried this chapter up (yes I do see the irony in that.)
> 
> anYwaY as per usual all mistakes are mine, feel free to beat me up in the comments section if you spot one. enjoy :)

He catches a cold in the middle of month four. 

John had been pretty steadily moving through the sludge, before that. He wasn’t exactly having a good time of it, but now that Sherlock no longer took him on cases - something he avoided thinking about, usually, the stab of hurt only came from a blunter and blunter knife each time he did - he had settled into a routine that didn’t change, and was easy to trudge through, and boiled down, really, to getting up to go to the clinic and coming back to go to bed. 

Something collapses when he first feels the headache and stuffy nose. He calls in sick to work, and he takes the next two days off. He’s always had a pretty strong immune system, and he fights it off in those two days, and he feels much, much better after, especially with the help of who he assumes is Mrs. Hudson, leaving food in front of his door. He could probably have returned to work after those couple days.

But he doesn’t. 

He means to, the next day, he really does, but he’s spent the entirety of the past two days in his bed, and now that he’s changed the sheets, the bed only looks more tempting. Something in his mind whispers that he can take another couple days off. No one’s going to miss him, certainly, the only person getting hurt will be him, and Sarah’s always cut him slack when he ran off with Sherlock for cases. It’s just a couple days. 

It comes from the back of his mind, the place that seems to always house the strangely thick darkness, even on his better days. It’s a place he knows not to trust, but it’s so tempting, it’s so tempting, and how bad can it be if it’s only echoing something John’s been wishing for day after day?

_It’s just a couple days._

Just a couple more days turns into a week, and he spends all of it sleeping. He only goes downstairs when he knows Sherlock won’t be there, to eat and bring food up into his room. He hasn’t showered in three days. He feels awful, but he knows, or at least the voice in his head knows, that it’ll only be worse if he gets out of bed, if he attempts to get back on his feet. He doesn’t, instead rolls over in bed and goes back to sleep (or, rather, stares at the wall for a couple hours until he finally falls into a doze that somehow only makes him more tired).

It’s exactly seven days after he first contracted the cold that there’s a knock on the door. He’d been on the bed, of course, and hadn’t been doing anything but watching himself. It was an odd feeling, looking from outside down at himself, like he was floating, like what he was doing wasn’t really him anymore. The knock doesn’t exactly scare him back into his body, but it’s enough to prompt him into dragging himself up (slowly, lethargically, as per usual), then again to the door, until he comes face to face with Sherlock.

He blinks. He wasn’t entirely sure who he was expecting to be on the other end of the door, but he knows he hadn’t been expecting Sherlock. 

He stares stupidly at Sherlock until he speaks. “Ah . . . John.”

“Yeah?” His voice is rough and weary. He hasn’t been using it much. At all, really, he thinks, over the past week.

“It’s been 8 days since you’ve left the flat,” Sherlock starts out cautiously, a sign that he means for this to be more than the casual do-you-want-to-split-take-out and how-did-the-case-go conversations they’d had more than enough of in the previous months. “8 days since you’ve left your room, really, except to get food when you’re sure I’m not here-” Damn. He had been hoping Sherlock didn’t notice, although he supposes he should have expected it. Sherlock is still Sherlock even if John is no longer John. Sherlock’s words speed up. “-and you got over your cold in the first couple days, so that is not the reason. There hasn’t been any significant event in the days prior to cause such an extreme reaction, so there must be something I cannot see.” He stops abruptly, taking in a breath, and stares at John, something in his eyes that John has never seen before, something that asks John to please fill in the blanks.

John doesn’t know what blanks he wants him to fill. “It’s nothing. I’ll be out tomorrow.” Probably.

“No, it’s not!” Sherlock looks like he’s just as surprised by the words as John is. He recovers quickly, much quicker than John, and says in a much quieter voice, “no. it’s not. Just- just, please, what’s wrong?” Sherlock’s voice has taken a pleading tone, something John had never genuinely heard from him outside of manipulation and disguises.

And suddenly, John is very, very angry. Sherlock had been the one that had started all this, wasn’t he? He had left him, had left John until everything that made him _John_ disappeared and he had been completely taken over by this strange, ugly shadow, had almost completely severed their relationship by no longer allowing him on cases, and now, for all of his brilliance and cleverness and deductions, could not figure out what was wrong? 

It’s the first time in a long time, a longer time than John cares to count, that John has felt something besides gray, humid sadness and dull, endless apathy. He feels almost lit on fire, feels like he could burn Sherlock to the ground and maybe burn himself up in the process, feels like his old self again.

“You can’t _deduce_ it?” he snaps harshly. Sherlock looks taken aback, again, only for a split second, before his face melts back into a determined, pressed anger. He looks like he might say something, but John doesn’t let him. “No. Leave me alone. You didn’t exactly have a problem with doing that before.”

He doesn’t wait to see Sherlock’s reaction to the jab, instead closing the door in his face and pressing his back against it. As soon as the door clicks shut, the anger dissipates, no matter how much he tries to hold on to the feeling. The bright, red anger disappears and he’s back to feeling nothing but gray. 

He tries to muster up anger at Sherlock again for that, but, still, the only anger he finds is at himself.

\---

He returns back to work the next day. 

Sarah gives him worried glances over the course of the day, asks him where he was and why he wasn’t answering his mobile when he’s readying to leave. He mutters something about Sherlock being a prat and ducks out. It’s raining outside.

When he gets back to the flat, it’s late and he’s wet. The door is unlocked, as usual, so he heads straight to the shower, plans to grab an apple from the kitchen if they have any left, then go straight to bed. He takes longer in the shower than he normally takes, catches himself watching water swirl down the drain no less than four times. 

Sherlock is downstairs when he finishes up and walks down for his apple. In fact, he’s already holding out an apple, along with a cup of tea, and isn’t that strange? As far back as John can remember, Sherlock has never made tea, not once. Hasn’t made anything for safe human consumption at all, really, and yet here he is, offering John exactly what he had been craving without even being asked. John hadn’t even made eye contact with Sherlock when he had strode in, so how-?

John takes the food with a cocked eyebrow, and Sherlock can’t ever resist showing off, and launches into an explanation that John is only half listening to. It’s when Sherlock stops, and looks at him with an expectant stare, looking like he’s waiting for John to tell him something, like he’s waiting for John to-

 _Of course._ Without John at crime scenes, who would praise Sherlock’s brilliant deductions? 

It’s this that finally sets John off. He hasn’t really, truly smiled in weeks, but this small, simple look from Sherlock sends him into peals of laughter, so much so that he has to set down the tea onto a table, hands shaking so much that there’s a real danger he might just spill it all onto his hand. Sherlock looks at him confused, which only makes him laugh harder, and he laughs and laughs until he thinks he must have made up for all the months without a single bright moment. 

When he’s finally able to regain control of himself, his sides _ache_ , and he’s so happy. He’s so _airy_ , feels amazing and so wonderfully sated and content and he wants to stay like this, to feel like this, forever. There’s a blue, happy feeling painted over the darkness in the depth of his mind and he barely restrains himself from letting out a gleeful giggle. He wonders why he ever, ever avoided Sherlock, why he decided that both he and Sherlock would be better with minimal contact, why he decided to deprive himself of this wonderful, wonderful feeling.

Sherlock still doesn’t look like he knows what’s going on, but John definitely doesn’t want to explain and send Sherlock into a sulk when he seems to just have started to open back up to John (and perhaps visa versa?) so instead he just says, “Brilliant, as always.”

Sherlock, predictably, preens at the praise. John suppresses another laugh.

“And,” John adds. “Thank you. For this.” He pauses to take a bite out of his apple, but also to give himself break enough to push down his pride to say, “I’m sorry for yesterday. I didn’t- I was out of line.”

“No it’s- it’s fine. It’s fine,” Sherlock says, and John wants to frown again, this time in concern - Sherlock hates repeating himself - but Sherlock continues before he has any time to ponder it. “And, John, I’d like- well, Lestrade said he might have a case for us tomorrow.”

_Us._

\---

Everything is back to normal. 

Everything is back to the way it was, at month two, when he was still going on cases with Sherlock and there wasn’t a raging uncertainty between them, and they’re closer now, he thinks, and more and more days are spent in blue and happy and laughter and _together_ , rather than the gray, crushing loneliness and sadness and icky smog of before. 

However, it really only makes things worse when those days _do_ come back, because what reason does he have to be sad like that? What justification does he have for feeling so awful? Why does he still feel a haunting presence in the back of his mind, even during the most wonderful of days?

This time, just as before, Sherlock notices something is wrong. This time, though, he doesn’t stare as much as he tries to help - or, at least, John thinks so. He begins to find cups of tea left around the flat, always hot, usually whenever he finds himself craving one. Sherlock starts to demand his presence more and more for the simplest things, calling him back to help him with another one of his inane experiments, or to help him organize the flat with a method that only he seemed to understand. If John’s being honest, it’s nice to feel taken care of and, at the same time, to feel like he’s needed.

The depression remains - and John thinks he’s finally aware enough to recognize it for what it is, rather than a faint pressured sadness at the back of his mind. 

It’s during another one of these dark spells - the ones in which John, usually right after a case when he knows the clinic won’t be expecting him for another day or two, lays in bed the whole day and tries to simultaneously fight off and embrace the gray exhaustion - that Sherlock knocks on the door. John can’t help his surprise. They’re on month 6, and ever since they had returned to business as usual, John had assumed that Sherlock was ignoring, well, this. Just like John was.

It looks like he was wrong, though - he’s been up here for two days, he thinks, and there’s no way Sherlock could have mistaken this for anything but _one of those days_. He doesn’t want Sherlock to come in, doesn’t want him to see him like this, and definitely doesn’t want to have to explain anything to Sherlock. He calls for him to come in anyway.

Sherlock enters hesitantly, but he hides it well, John knows that if he hadn’t known Sherlock for so long he would have missed it behind the determination and clenched fists. “John,” he starts, and then pauses, staring at him, harshly enough that John isn’t actually sure that Sherlock isn’t glaring at him instead.

“Sher . . . lock?” he says after a couple moments of them staring at each other (or Sherlock glaring at him, and John staring back at him?) in silence. He tries to subtly clear the raspiness from his throat. It doesn’t work, he thinks, but he has no way of knowing, because Sherlock, taking his voice as a prompt to speak, launches into what is clearly a pre-rehearsed speech. 

“John, I have analysed your behaviour over the past six months and your symptoms are as follows. You seem to constantly be in a state of sadness, no matter how much I, or others, attempt to cheer you up via things that usually seem to do so, such as assisting me. You lose interest in things that you previously enjoyed - such as the cases, which I am very sorry for depriving you of - and have also lost interest in socialising. Although you seem to be at the pinnacle of health when you accompany me on cases, you lack energy when we are not on a case. You have withdrawn from myself and others, leading to concern. There are others, most of which I am sure you are aware of, but I think this is sufficient evidence to begin showing elevated concern for clinical depression, and as your,” he pauses for a moment, barely noticeable, before continuing, “friend, I insist that you return to taking sessions with Ella, or another therapist of your choice, equipped to deal with both your pre-diagnosed PTSD and this as well. Mycroft and I, of course, will provide you with-”

Throughout most of his speech, John’s mind hadn’t allowed for any other emotion other than shock, mainly because he could never have imagined Sherlock tackling a problem so out of his comfort depth so head-on, and also because he really couldn’t believe exactly what was happening in front of him. Sherlock’s tendency to speak a mile a minute didn;t exactly help, but before long, John really couldn’t listen to it anymore, and instead interrupted, with more force than he normally would as Sherlock sometimes needed to be forcefully interrupted to even hear that someone was speaking to him, “Sherlock!”

Sherlock hears him, and pauses for another miniscule second, before continuing, although not exactly in the same vein as before. “John, I understand that this amateurish diagnosis is probably upsetting, but even if I am not correct, clearly there is some sort of is-”

“Sherlock,” he says again, more patiently. He’s not sure what Sherlock interprets this as, because he shifts gears again, although this time his tone is much different from his usual, almost robotic, voice that he usually used for his deductions. It’s almost frantic, almost desperate.

“No, John, you must listen to me, this-”

“No, Sherlock, you listen to _me,_ ” and this time, Sherlock does shut up, and stares at him intensely, eyes wide. 

He pauses for a minute, not exactly what he wants to say now that he has the chance - he hadn’t expected Sherlock to stop so suddenly - then sighs and says, “I know.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. He ignores it, and says again, “I know.” And it’s true, he does. He just- “I just, I didn’t, I wanted- well, I don’t know. I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I didn’t know if you . . .” He doesn’t know. Didn’t know if Sherlock would support it? Didn’t know if Sherlock would want to stick with someone so broken?

Sherlock scoffs, apparently, yet again, knowing John better than he knows himself. “Don’t be stupid, John, I love you, there’s no way I wouldn’t-” He halts again, and his eyes blow wider than they already had, and isn’t that a feat? John’s not sure what caused such an extreme reaction, before playing the words back again in his head and he freezes too. 

_I love you._

Sherlock stays silent and frozen for only a moment more, before he swiftly turns on his heels and to the door without another word. John unfreezes himself at the sight, calling out quicker than he would have thought possible, “wait, Sherlock, stop!” 

Sherlock does, although he doesn’t turn back. “What?” he snaps at the door.

John says what comes to mind first. “I love you, too.” And it’s true. John’s surprised by how true it is, but it’s true. He’s not sure when it happened, not sure why he never realized it, but he knows he believes it more than he’s ever believed anything. He loves Sherlock Holmes. 

Sherlock slowly wheels himself around. He scans John’s face for any sign of a lie, and John doesn’t need to keep his face open because he knows it’s displayed over every inch of it: The truth is, he loves Sherlock Holmes. He’s in love with Sherlock fucking Holmes. 

Sherlock comes closer. He sits on the bed. “Can I kiss you?” 

John presses his lips to Sherlock in lieu of a response.

\---

It’s only a little while later later that they finally settle, but John is still under the throes of the thick exhaustion, although, currently, he doesn’t feel anything else but a happy, airy feeling, not unlike what he had felt a couple months ago, back when Sherlock allowing him back on cases was the happiest thing that had happened to him. He feels light, unburdened, at least for now.

They’re still in John’s room, but John is now back to laying on his back, and Sherlock is perched on the other side of the bed, long legs stretched out in front of him. 

“Does this mean that you’ll book an appointment with Ella? Or perhaps allow me to find another, more suitable, therapist?” Sherlock’s disdain for Ella is barely contained in his voice. 

John laughs. He finds he wants to do that a lot more now. “Yes. Yes, another one, I think.” 

He rests his hand, palm up, next to his head. He feels Sherlock’s hand tentatively move to grab it, and he lets him. Squeezes his hand when Sherlock does the same. “Thank you,” he says, suddenly. 

Sherlock only replies with what John is sure is a fond look. “Don’t be an idiot, John.” 

The shadow, the heaviness, is still at the back of his mind, waiting to sink its teeth back into John, but right now, happy and light and blue and next to Sherlock, who he loves and who loves him? 

It’s the first time in a long time he’s felt really, truly, happy, and he doesn’t ever want to let this feeling go.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's probably going to be an epilogue at the end of this if everything goes according to plan, mostly because the ending seemed a little bit too "and he fell in love and he was cured, the end" for my tastes so keep an eye out for that.
> 
> as is pretty on brand for me this got wildly out of control considering this wasn't supposed to be a getting together story lmao, but here we are. 
> 
> last thing, forgot to note, all titles are from halsey's album manic!! ashley, clementine, and 929.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway part 2 will be the comfort part (probably) (depends on if I'm no longer in the projecting mood lmao)
> 
> 7/14/20: hello everyone :D i'm transferring some of these works from one account to another, so tinyspoons and caffeine101 are both me, to clear up any confusion as to who is answering comments as the author lmao.


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